We are all aware that we have the prehistoric remnants of a ‘lizard brain,’ the leftover survival instinct that shifts into ‘fight or flight’ mode when we find ourselves in danger.
I wonder if the last couple of millennia have also added ‘ignore’ and ‘freeze’ to our survival toolkits as well.
Here’s how my little lizard brain tried to deal with a drunk on the bus:
Some interesting questions from Bev at Sunday Stealing but I'm feeling recalcitrant and might do it on another day of the week. So it's Tuesday and boy-oh-boy, what seemed like a fun Q and A has become quite emotional for me.
1. An unforgettable day in my life.
When my daughter was born. She started sending me rather strong signals of her intentions to enter the world at a dinner party on Friday night. It was all rather exciting and I was happy to share it with the other four guests. Our prenatal classes had informed us that early contractions are NOT like in the movies, with water gushing and being rushed into Emergency two minutes later, but to stay calm and time them. These were only occurring every twenty minutes or so.
At home that night though, I couldn't sleep and sat up buffered by every ornamental pillow we'd normally toss off the bed when we climbed into it. I wrote down the time and duration of each contraction and by Saturday morning, they were every ten minutes. I still knew to stay calm as our teacher had told us that hospitals sent many excited new parents back home until the contractions were every five minutes.
I tried to stand up against our mantelpiece and look nonchalant as Dean sold our tiny little Suzuki to a local florist, not wanting her to know that a) I was having contractions and b) they hurt like hell.
By 8pm Saturday evening, they were five minutes apart. The Melbourne Women's and Children's hospital was still located in Carlton then and a stone's throw from Lygon Street - the busiest street for bars, restaurants and shops in Melbourne. Dean drove around the block several times trying to find a parking spot.
Eventually we saw one, but so did another car - I wound down the window of our 'brand new' ex-government Mitsubishi station wagon we'd bought the week earlier in preparation for parenthood, and asked them if, because I was in labour, if we could take the spot. They kindly agreed and instant karma was bestowed on them as the spot in front of ours also became vacant.
Once in hospital, the contractions were stronger but I wasn't dilated enough. To avoid all the rather icky stuff, it is best to summarise the experience as having had three different marvelous midwives help us through it before ending their respective shifts. Epidurals, vomiting from bearing down so much and seeing poor Dean's exhausted, sleeping face smooshed up against the steel grey side of the bedside drawer. By lunchtime, our baby's heart rate was starting to fade and I then started living a Hollywood movie scene when they rushed me into surgery, Dean wearing what looked like a shower cap and tears in his eyes and he ran alongside us. Our daughter finally emerged via forceps and me numbed from the waist down in case a Caesarean was needed, at 2.15pm on Sunday afternoon.
She was blue, but rapidly turned pink, with a thin coating of strawberry blonde hair. We'd made a human being! I was also selfishly glad that I was still too numb to be moved because the infamous tar-like meconium poop she produced was left to be seen and dealt with by poor Dean.
That was 23rd May 1999. A week overdue, so if you're into astrology, our expected Taurus became a Gemini.
Chocolate. In my chocolate reviewing days, I was into dark chocolate, but after a decade in Switzerland, it's milk chocolate mostly. Not the particularly posh stuff either. Lindt never lets me down, nor the number that appears on my bathroom scales. However, nothing chocolate 'flavoured' because that's always a very poor substitute and a disappointment, especially chocolate milk, cake or ice-cream.
3. My biggest fashion accessory
My gold bangles (three) and perfume. I've adored bangles (plastic, metal, silver, fake gold, real gold) even as a child and my parents gave me a gold one in 1990 and Dean gave me two others in 2005 which was our tenth wedding anniversary. I don't take 'em off any more after one once broke, so I'm an automatic candidate for an airport security pat-down.
Perfume. Unbrushed hair and teeth, baggy tracksuit pants, old running t-shirt and stained parka are my 'go to' clothes during this never-ending French lockdown, yet I still give myself a spritz. My lifetime favorite is the original Chloe that I've used for over 30 years. It's hard to find and I don't like the newer versions, so Tiffany, good old White Musk from the Body Shop, Yardley's Violet, Chanel No 19, 4077 Cologne and a few of the Burberry's are also in use. Chloe is for the bestest of best days.
4. My biggest celebrity crush
C. Thomas Howell. Ponyboy in The Outsiders. That adorable face....! I spent a lot of my hard-earned babysitting money to buy imported UK teen mags like 'Tiger Beat' in order to find posters of him. He didn't reach the fame or cinematic heights of most of his Outsiders costars but that face.....
5. One hobby I would like to learn
I would have said 'learn French' but my old brain is always working in English. I can't help but automatically read every label, street sign and, to his great annoyance, Dean's iPad when he's sitting next to me. I love alliteration and thinking up things to write about, so when I did try to learn French my brain just....turned itself off. I know that you must give things a good hard try and nothing comes easy and you live in France and you're lacking confidence and, and, and..... If it could be 'magicked' into my brain I'd be thrilled.
Maybe a drama class for oldies? A fantasy would be to occasionally get to play an unglamorous but rude old lady who couldn't care less about what swear words she gets to say at shocked youngers. That seems like fun.
6. My OCD habits
Harrison Ford was a carpenter by trade and he once mentioned in an interview that he can't help straightening books or magazines on coffee tables so that they're in a straight line with the edges of the table. I do that too. Even before 'happy birthday' hand washing timings of Covid-19, my hands resembled scaly claws due to the dozens and dozens of times I wipe down the kitchen counter, sink top, table, coffee making machine, spills etc. The worst decision I've made was deciding on a stainless steel splashback for the stove top and sink because the calcium-rich water here shows up every single drop and I seem to spend every single moment wiping them off.
7. If I could eat one last meal
Dean cooks an amazing spiced coated chicken schnitzel that he serves with twice cooked roasted potatoes, onions, carrots and garlic. The soft roasted garlic oozes out of the skin and doesn't give you the dreaded 'ten feet distance away from me, please' breath afterwards. Add steamed broccoli and fresh asparagus and sweet corn. Dessert could be a good baked cheesecake or carrot cake struggling under the weight of the cream cheese icing. Add a generous handful of fresh raspberries. Moet to wash it all down with.
8. Working on my fitness
Both of my achilles and both of my (I don't want to say 'bone spurs' because I don't want to have ANYTHING IN COMMON with Donald Trump ever) plantar fasciitis thingies have finally ended my running. Even with a treadmill on a much slower speed and planned shorter distances, these flare up and I spend more time off recovering than doing any actual running. The treadmill is a good place to drape bed sheets to dry though.
I have a fitness DVD by Jillian Michael called the 'Thirty Day Shred' that I could probably recite word for word, but after the end of Lockdown One, I lost interest. My thighs sighed with relief.
During Lockdown Two, we adopted Felix. As a four year old dog, he's got the body of an athlete in his prime and, as an apartment dweller with a balcony for a garden, he needs and deserves long walks and the opportunity to explore and have a deep think for several seconds before deciding to pee on the wild chives in front of him. This has been a genuine gift for me. No, not the obsessive excrement eating or raging barks at elderly folk, but the distances we end up walking each day. I'm not seeing any amazing weight loss but, unlike Felix, no-one controls what I get in my food bowl per day, so that's on me.
9. What I spend money on
Apart from the mortgage, utilities, credit card and groceries? Wool for the scarves I've been knitting as a LGBTQI fundraiser. You can see some of them here at https://www.etsy.com/au/shop/EverythingWoolBeOk.
For some reason it's stuck in AUD prices which makes postage estimates from France (especially during Covid) almost impossible. I've had better luck selling them privately. I can't knit anything fancy or know how to follow a pattern but the repetitive nature of knitting is comforting and helps stop me from picking at my fingernails quite so often. Elmo's been an enthusiastic model, but as soon as I use up my last batch of wool I'm going to donate them to the French Federation - https://federation-lgbt.org/
10. My favorite recipe
No single one, as I'm not an enthusiastic cook, which means that sensible things like evening meals I have boring 'go tos' like spaghetti bolognese, various soups, various stir-fries and quiche. That's why Dean is the chef in our house: he enjoys it and is particularly good at it. Favourite recipes for me always involve sweets. That said, I'm still baking our lockdown bread because I like the hands-on habit of it and the process involved. But being asked to 'bring dessert' which means make a white chocolate and blueberry cheesecake, tiramisu, pavlova or carrot cake means a happy Saturday afternoon in the kitchen listening to ABBA as I bake.
11. The best part of each season
I'll apply my European view on these, as the seasons are much more distinctive from each other than where I came from.
Summer - fields of sunflowers, outdoor drinking, long hours of daylight
Autumn - the beautiful changes of the leaves. Cooler nights which are better for sleeping. Seeing cute little pumpkins sitting on ancient stone door steps and fences as decorations.
Winter - Snow skiing (if not shut down due to Covid as it has been this past season), seeing robins hop along the path ahead of where Felix and I are walking, Christmas decorations and traditions making more sense in the cold weather.
Spring - the violets, daffodils and snowdrops that have somehow survived the winter and emerge into the still not-very-reliable sunshine. Blossoms. Felix trotting on green grass dotted with tiny white daisies. Being able to sit out on our balcony again.
12. A life lesson I’ve learned
There's always a tiny grain of truth in stereotypes. They can be over-generalised and sometimes cruel, but they expose a commonality that a lot of us recognise. None of us want to be BE a stereotype, but we can sure recognise them.
13. My inspiration to blog
I did it pretty regularly as a way to recover from a full-on breakdown in 2005, before stopping in 2013. My daughter was then a teenager and it didn't seem right to mention her at that time of her life as it was her own. Plus, my older brother's wife emailed me to say that she'd always disliked me; didn't know why but had decided to therefore cut me, my husband and then thirteen year old child out of her life forever. Up until then she had been a regular reader and commenter on the blog and I figured that she didn't deserve to see what I was thinking or getting up to if she was OK with making my daughter cry every birthday when she realised each time that her aunt (and uncle) had completely written her out of their lives for no reason that has ever been explained to her, me or the rest of my family.
My daughter is grown up now; at university in Edinburgh and I'm trying to see if I can write stuff that isn't just relying on what a silly mummy I am. Therefore, starting up again has been a bit slow and painful. I'm not sure who still reads blogs as about 99% of my old links have disappeared and tiktok just doesn't seem to be the right option for creaky old me. I didn't know if I had anything worth sharing or saying - I still don't know - but I feel somehow, as though I want something of me put somewhere. If nothing else, having stuff to think about does help with my depression, self confidence and wondering just how and where I fit.
14. What’s inside my closet?
Pretty boring clothes, to be honest. Maybe two dresses, but the rest are shirts, t-shirts and jackets. As a teen/early twenty something, I was very much into fashion, but for me it was out of anxiety. I didn't have the movie star looks of my mother and it was my friend Jo the guys flocked to, not me. Fashion felt like a teeny tiny way to at least look the part. After doing the two-year working holiday stint in London, it was travel, rent and cider that was more important to me. These days, I just want my clothing choices to ensure that no-one runs away from me screaming.
15. Let me brag a minute.
You've got me on a down day, unfortunately. I have so much to be thankful for, but when the 'Big D' (my sad attempt at nullifying the effects of depression by giving it a disrespectful nickname) kicks in, it can seem like I'm dragging one foot behind the other, stretching my facial muscles to adequately resemble the socially acceptable expression and keep it up until bedtime. The good thing is that these days or weeks don't last forever. It has taken me a lot of time, mistakes and incredible personal pain to finally understand that.
So, maybe my 'brag' is that yes, I have depression. And yes, it does define me - how can it not? It is a part of me and sometimes wields a much larger and more exhaustive control over me than I'd like. Other days I'm only dimly aware of it, but am never in doubt of its existence or that it's lurking there, always waiting and watching. Maybe the best advice I can give myself - and lord knows I try to - is to say what I'd say to anyone I loved who was suffering.
"What would you tell your friend?" They'd invariably come up with some pretty decent responses and I'd say, "well, if it's good enough for your friend, it's good enough for you." Perhaps that advice is something to brag about.
I am agnostic, which in truth means that I’m not crazy about organized religion or the belief that if you pray, god will answer your prayers. I found this out when, at age six, I came home from Sunday School and thought I would give it a try.
Being reasonably sensible, I thought I would pray to God for something relatively easy and nothing that would be too difficult or over-reaching. A Big Sister tinned chocolate pudding. Mum would buy them, boil them for ages and then open it open to reveal a dark brown, steaming cake with sweet chocolate sauce which she’d serve with ice-cream. Perfection, affordable and surely not too hard for God to say ‘yes’ to.
The next morning, I checked my windowsill, having decided that it was the spot God would drop the tin if he had heard my prayers. Nothing.
As I matured and developed my own – not always correct or sane – reasoning skills, the idea of organised religion repelled me. However, my fear of being wrong and then finding out too late when flung by fire into heaving cauldrons of lava in hell for all of eternity for being a non-believer means that I prefer to say ‘agnostic’ instead of ‘atheist.’ Hell, I don’t even understand how electricity works or how post-it notes stay sticky time after time, so why would I presume to decide that a power larger than me has not already invented it all and figured things out?
Hell was not mentioned too often in my church; we tended to focus on sermons about being a better person, helping others and summed up by a bible reading which was always from the New Testament. Having tried to read through the Old Testament when I was 14, I understood that a lot of those sorts of lessons were a fair bit darker and more perverted than singing about the foolish man who built his house upon the sand.
Being from Protestant stock, Purgatory was not discussed at all. My limited reading of it is that it’s a kind of ‘half-way’ house between heaven and hell. Purgatory seems to be related to the word ‘purge’ as in to get rid of an undesirable or unwanted thing or behaviour. Apparently, there are some who believe that you might be given a few chances in Purgatory to make amends for the naughty ways you conducted your life, but who was it that judged if you were finally good enough to ‘pass’ or were still just too damn horrible and had to drop directly to hell without passing go? Didn’t God and Satan have enough on their plates to worry about whether you’d been sufficiently good or bad enough to enter their dominions for the everlasting afterlife?
The question also arises if Purgatory is the same as it is here on earth. If it is the same, you’ll be able to re-do some of your actions so that the amends you might be able to make are directly comparable to the ones you didn’t perform to well on earth, right? But if Purgatory was not like life on earth and had challenges our human brains can not fathom, how do you get out of it?
Blame it on the new sleeping tablets, but I’m wondering if Purgatory might just be a slightly more annoying form of earth and that God and Satan could not care less about anyone who ends up there. A bit like the muddy campers at Glastonbury or people who enjoy watching car racing.
If this theory is correct, those left to remain in Purgatory must surely endure things that, if they happened on earth would be enough to frustrate, annoy and anger us, but, for them, are only to be accepted forever.
Some examples spring to mind:
Every bus ride has you sitting next to someone who sniffs constantly, just letting the mucus almost drip out before wetly sniffing it back up again in a never-ending sliding snot cycle.
Wet paint on all park benches.
Cold McDonalds fries.
You arrive at your dream historic destination to find the entire building covered in scaffolding and plastic sheets.
This did indeed happen to us in the Summer of 2012 and my reaction to the sight, after an awful train trip on a hot day surrounded by elbowing tourists was most definitely NOT one that would feature well on my Purgatory score card.
Your phone records the first ten seconds of comments you make AFTER ending a call and immediately sends that recording to the person.
Every tea cup you own has brown stain lines from previous cups but the dishwasher can never remove them.
Your leather office chair ‘farts’ every time you move in it.
The only time you’re able to dance in public is when a wasp chases you at the bus stop.
Your clothes reek of cigarette smoke after a night out even though smoking indoors is banned
The day starts at 5am with government-mandated braless Zumba workouts.
Not one New Year’s resolution lasts beyond the 2nd of January.
You must be seen and recorded reading every single word of all ‘Terms and Conditions’ before clicking ‘I accept.’
No matter if they’re your size, one side of your underpants will immediately slide into your butt crack the moment you leave the house.
A pillow that never has a cool side when you flip it over at 3am
Radio stations who play only 1980s rock but still have the stupidity to say, ‘Hey groovy listeners, who of you remembers ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ by Bon Jovi?’
No dogs want to be petted by you.
Every dog wants to taste you.
A supermarket conveyor belt who scans and then publicly provides comments on your trolley items. “Aspirin, vodka and four family-sized blocks of chocolate. Shouldn’t you go back for tampons?”
Having to ignore the moistly glinting, dangly booger oh so delicately swinging in and out of your boss’s nose while you await his decision on your request for a pay rise.
Instagram influencers as the ruling political party.
South African World Cup vuvuzelas are the official alarms for every watch, clock, iPhone, and police vehicle.
Your deodorant never works.
Shell suits or corduroy trousers are the only styles of clothing allowed so you can never sneak up on anyone.
On long haul flights, any surreptitious fart you try to do straight into the uncomfortable economy seat sets off the ‘call for cabin crew’ light above your head, which changes its label to 'Selfish Furtive Farter' for the rest of your nearby passengers to see and disapprove of.
Every person in front of you pays for their fuel, electric bill or groceries with coins that they only start counting after the check out person has announced the total.
Tables all have one wonky leg that will not respond to any efforts to level it.
Having to listen to at least six people per day recount the weird dreams they had last night.
Always needing to urgently use the photocopier when it has run out of toner and some jerk has left it with a paper jam.
Carpet-lined toilet seat covers and surrounding floor mats in public conveniences and road stops.
The only televised sports available are golf and darts.
The mosquito buzzing around your room at 2am instantly disappears when you switch the light on but returns the second you turn it off.
Modern interpretative dance performances replace movie theatres.
All dirty cups and plates are placed next to the dishwasher but not in the dishwasher.
Toilet paper always unrolls facing and touching the wall.
Enthusiastic tap dancers live in the apartment above you.
Every time you need to do a crap at work, you’re in the middle stall surrounded by two colleagues who 1) know it’s you in there and 2) feeling like having a chat.
Fluorescent light that is too blindingly bright to cook, read or watch TV by but flickers intermittently.
Fat mirrors.
Looking forward to eating last night’s roast chicken only to find that it’s covered by a weird brown jelly.
People who say: Unprecedented, Off-ramping, Ramping-up, At the end of the day, Interface, Let’s revisit this at the next meeting, Literally, Actually, Whatever.
Every Pap smear you undertake is attentively watched by a class of 25 new medical students
The dentist sneezes while he’s drilling out your cavity.
Your email access is completely restricted until you have read and replied to every single item of spam.
IKEA no longer include instructions.
Cocoa bean plants become extinct.
Laminated toilet paper.
Ribbed condoms but not for her pleasure.
Unflavoured soy milk as the only beverage of choice during University Orientation week.
I've been ten years out of Australia now and realise that the word 'reckon' is the one that confuses most other non-antipodean English speakers.
It just means 'think' or 'consider' in a more casual sense but instead of saying, "I think we should have chicken for dinner tonight," we Aussies say "I reckon a roast chook would be pretty good."
Our daughter Carly, arrived in Switzerland at twelve years old and went to an international school with friends owning a lot of different accents and backgrounds. Now nearly twenty two years old, Carly is partly Swiss, a bit Aussie and in her third year of living and studying in Scotland. When we facetime each other, she often points out that my Aussie accent and colloquialisms are much stronger than Dean's, despite the fact we both went to country high schools in the same state..
But today, I want to ask youse all something. Whaddaya reckon about me starting a wee YouTube account featuring me in my Dog Walking Lady-clothed finery, sharing a few not particularly earth shattering (but certainly) true escapades, opinions or bravely revealed personal embarrassments?
Whaddaya reckon? I'd really like your feedback. You see, I love writing. I write serious stuff for a 'living' but 'living' in reality is that Dean has the job that keeps us housed, fed, clothed, educated (Carly) and healthy and I get a bit of freelance stuff that I'm inordinately grateful for and then hate myself for having to politely submit my invoice, wait over a month to get paid and then overthank them for it. To say that I contribute financially through writing is akin to letting a hedgehog hold the balloons. Maybe I should just enjoy the opportunity to do it rather than consume my soul in anxiety about not being a contributor financially. (That's a topic often discussed with my psychiatrist). I reckon that last sentence has lowered the mood a bit!
On a more positive level, writing and talking seem to be a similar thing in my world. My family are bored to tears hearing my stories over and over, and the mundane or weird ones that I write about on Medium or here aren't ones that they're going to rush to read. I'm Kath/Mum after all: they see enough of me when I shower with the door open to let the steam out or when I start ranting about 4WD owners who don't have roof racks or two bars and just use them to pick up their kids.
Very quietly, I've had a YouTube account for a few years and only used it to share some old Milly clips and two of Felix. It is, to put it charitably, very neglected and rarely watched. Not unlike my attitude towards my personal grooming regime.
To start us off, I'll share this one of Felix with you now. It was posted a few months back but will only take a little over a minute of your time to watch and hopefully end up with a smile. This Spanish shelter dog that we adopted at three-and-a-half years old literally jumps for joy when it is his dinner time.
That was filmed in October and he STILL performs the same enthusiastic and energetically joyful dance for his evening meal. Breakfast is different because Dean takes him out for a walk and I fill up Felix's bowl ready for his return. His reaction is to slide around the corner at sonic speed while skidding on the black and white mats, madly skitter around the kitchen bench to inhale his crunchies before I can say 'Hello there, Mr Speckles, how was your walk...."
You can see that I'm avoiding talking about my own old bonce being on YouTube. I'm not famous, nor a stand up, an endearing animal or a public performer and never have been. The world needs youth, intelligence, glamour, useful tips and not a 52 year old who still laughs when she sees French shower caps labelled 'douche bonnets.'
It's Dean's fault, really. He's known for saying "I love you" at the precise moment when I'm doubled over emptying the kitchen flip top bin under the sink so that only my grey marle tracksuited arse is in his vision, so he's not one for inane compliments or promising me a rose garden.
It was a genuine surprise when admitted to me that he had been reading my old blog back in the day but is also now reading the ones on Medium and right here. I even teared up a little. He said that he reckons I could try and say 'em out loud, like a short stand up on YouTube.
Firstly, I ain't short and secondly, the idea of stand up scares the undigested corn kernels out of me. Vanity isn't something that would be ascribed to me, I don't think, but there's a tiny little 'give it a go, what have you got to lose' voice that sometimes emerges from behind the cacophony of self-doubt. What if I simplified things a bit and sat down, in my normal clothes, in my own house, and just chatted for a bit? Would that work, you reckon?
Obviously I'll need to learn how to edit and cut out the erms and ahhhhhs and incessant playing with my glasses. But maybe we could all have a laugh at an old gal that will try not to take up too much of your time but make you feel glad to be you and not her?
If you could feel the nervous sweat and the red heat of embarrassment on my face as I'm writing this, waiting for the YouTube video to be uploaded, then try multiplying it by one hundred. It's my first attempt at sit down. It was done off the cuff and quite rightly needs to be tightened and better edited. My hands are shaking.
But it's time to give it a go I reckon. I really truly would like your feedback, bad, good or indifferent. I'm more than happy to stick to the occasional blog and keep my face of YouTube if the world truly doesn't need it.
Honesty is appreciated, but please be kind about it. There ain't much I can do with this face!
Sunday Stealing by Bev is a rather clever way to prevent procrastinating when writing. This might not be a novel, but the questions she poses make you think about your answer.
1 Do You Sleep With Your Closet Doors Open Or Closed?
Closed, for neatness and also to prevent Dean from smacking into them during his 3am wee walk. The gap between our bed and the wardrobe is pretty slim. New apartments aren't too generous with space.
2 Do You Have Freckles?
For someone with skin whiter than the palest foundation available, surprisingly very few. My mother was very conscious of protecting my skin from the killer rays of the Aussie sun in the 70s and 80s, so I regularly swam with a t-shirt on and limbs and face slathered in what was the highest level of protection that a sunscreen could legally print on their bottles: 15+.
As it happens, this week I visited a dermatologist for the first time and had two basal cell carcinomas removed from my head. With blood and antiseptic soaked hair from my right ear and dribbling from the hairline of the left side of my forehead, I looked like a drunk old lady who'd lost a punch up with some rubbish bins. It did, however, give me a very large choice in what seats on the bus I wanted.
What worries me more is that the dermatologist has scheduled me for a FULL BODY examination in May. Look, I'm fifty two. There are facial folds that remain in concertina mode for the entire day; an extra ten kilograms reducing me to the shape of an acorn and a stomach you could post an iPad in. Acting out the middle-aged female representation of Leonardo DaVinci's 'Vetruvian Man' isn't going to be fun for anyone involved.
3 Can You Whistle?
I can, but not the really loud, two fingers in the mouth call that farmers can make to bring in their dogs from the fields. Instead, I can whistle tunes pretty accurately which, if considered a skill, has provided me with no additional advantages in life whatsoever.
4 Last Song You Listened To.
'Blue' by Eiffel 65. It was on the radio all the time the year that our daughter was born, so I used to dance with her around the kitchen to it. Yesterday however, it was being blasted across the soccer field as a PE teacher was leading his class in step aerobics with this as the theme song.
5 Name Something That Relaxes You.
Prescription sleeping tablets. I wish I could say physical exhaustion (which I usually have), or mental tiredness (ditto), but drifting off into dreamland seems to be a special skill that others have mastered and, like reading music or truly understanding French, I most certainly have not. These pills are only temporary offerings but to be knocked out by midnight and awake at 8am is a feeling that (apart from hangovers) I've never experienced before. And before you ask, yes I've tried hypnosis, meditation, yoga, bedtime habits and 'hygiene,' and herbs. There's a buzzing streak of anxiety within me that of course aids and abets my depression. Whenever a complex task is completed or a useful idea put into practice, the sense of relaxation is never allowed to visit me for very long. Even if I'm reading a book I feel guilty and lazy about wasting time doing it.
6 What Sounds Are Your Favourite?
The tiny rip of thin cardboard and then the thin crackle of foil as a Lindt block is being opened. The snore of a dog who knows he's the best boy and has had the best day. Frying onions and bacon. Our delonghi grinding the coffee beans. The tap of keys on the keyboard when you're in the zone. The pop of a champagne cork. Music that, when you hear it, takes you instantly back to the time, age and feelings you experienced when you first heard it. Laughter.
7 What Do You Wear To Bed?
Oh, I'm a stunner, me. Undies, of course, because I'd hate to be caught by a burglar or some weird 'surprise' reality/game show/Michael McIntyre film crew with my front bottom on show. Baggy old t-shirt. Mouthguard to prevent teeth grinding but makes it so that I shpeak shushpishishly like a shedated sheptuagenarian on shuper shtrong shleeping pillsh.
8 Do You Sing In The Shower?
More humming than singing and mostly because they're annoying earworms like - and these are all recent examples - Lemon Tree Very Pretty, Bob the Builder, Copacobana, Baggy Trousers and, most oddly of all, An English Country Garden.
9 What Books Are You Reading?
Bugger Banksy by Roy D Hacksaw
10 Do You Believe In Magic?
That's a bit of a double-edged question. Yes, magic exists if performed by very clever and skilled people called 'magicians' and we can't see their sleight of hand or work out the trick. But electricity doesn't arrive into my electrical outlets by 'magic.' So, my answer is no. All magic can be explained.
11 Can You Curl Your Tongue?
Yes. And, like being able to whistle in tune, it has brought me neither fame nor fortune.
12 Have You Ever Caught A Butterfly?
No. Last summer one flew by and landed on the top of my dog's head while he was busy sniffing the grass. It was over in seconds and therefore impossible to get my iphone out, unlock it and take the photo. It's a beautiful scene I replay in my mind often though.
13 Name One Movie That Made You Cry.
Watching it at a relatively young age, 'Elephant Man' made me cry a lot. The fact that it was a true story and the unrelenting cruelty shown to John Merrick shocked me to my core. I've never been able to watch it since. As an older person, there have been too many to single down to just one. Schindler's List. Brokeback Mountain. The opening story of Pixar's 'Up.' Dead Poet's Society; Platoon; Sophie's Choice, The Deer Hunter, Gallipoli. Our daughter was a baby when we watched 'Welcome to Sarajevo' and in the scene when they try to remove the baby from the bus I had to rush into her room and pick her up and hold her.
14 Peanuts Or Sunflower Seeds?
Peanuts. Sunflower seeds are boring!
15 Are You A Heavy Sleeper?
Oh, how I wish. Countless early AM hours have been spent either lying in bed with a too-hot pillow, wandering legs, itchy sheets or out in front of the TV or sitting on the toilet looking at my iphone feeling like the loneliest person in the world while everyone else is peacefully sleeping. Falling asleep quickly, staying asleep and enjoying a deep restorative sleep are techniques or physical abilities that I've missed out on completely. I'm lucky to average four hours per night and can keep this up for a fortnight before 'treating' myself to a sleeping pill.
Of course. Even if you're repelled or amused in a disgusted sort of way, if you click on those infernal Facebook adverts, they will continue to offer you even more.
On an intellectual level, this is understood, but the 'you've got to be KIDDING me - they think that THIS is what I'm looking for' curiosity for further thrills and giggles wins out every time.
And so, we have more butt ugly shoes that the Facebook algorithm gift pixies think I'd gladly throw my money at. Why should I suffer alone, why not share them with you?
You know that awful feeling after backing out a satisfactorily big turd, only for the water to splash back and hit you in the bum?
Well, back in the eighties, Australia still had an unfortunate number of these human butt splashes who decided that Asians emigrating to Australia were a problem. Never mind that we’d taken over and almost destroyed the dozens of indigenous people’s cultures or welcomed the Greeks and Italians after they fled the desolation of World War II, apparently the traumatised Vietnamese and intrepid Chinese were just a tad too much.
One of these mental amoebas spray painted ‘ASIANS OUT’ on a wall near Rundle Street where it was guaranteed to get a lot of attention. Not long after, an anonymous champion added a few words so that it read: ‘Take ASIANS OUT to lunch!’ That edited graffiti stayed there for years and was a pleasant reminder that racists are far outnumbered by kinder and more decent people.
In 2001, we were having a family BBQ with my husband’s side of the family at our house in Adelaide. Dean was outside taking care of the chops and sausages and I was inside with my two-year-old daughter, her 6-month-old cousin, my two sisters-in-law and his mother. We did not see each other often, but that was due to an acrimonious upbringing and painful divorce two decades before I was on the scene.
I happened to mention that my older brother, let’s call him R, had just got engaged. He had met an experimental microbiologist who had originally come from Singapore but had made Australia her home since gaining her PhD.
With that fairly innocuous conversation over, Dean’s sister, let’s call her A, started doing a form of muttered whispering that never, ever involves saying anything nice. I ignored it the first time, focusing my attention on the baby and my own toddler.
A tried again, a tiny bit louder, but low enough that she could deny if I claimed that she had said anything racist. I stopped what I was doing and looked straight at her. “Sigh, mutter mutter mutter, Asians taking jobs away from Australians….”
“What did you say?”
A said it louder this time, with an expression daring me to respond.
I thought for a few seconds. “Why do you think like that?”
The answer was not one from the KKK textbook. Instead, she ranted on that I was taunting her; making fun of her single status by bragging that my brother was about to get married.
“Eh?”
She went on to say that she had in fact gone on a single date with my brother, R, in 1988. She refused my explanation that a) I had not remembered that fact; and b) I was not with Dean at the time. Somehow, in the thirteen years of work, overseas adventures, marriage, motherhood and general living life, I was supposed to remember that R had asked her out once.
But then I *did* remember. He told me about it afterwards. “I tried to make conversation like, oh your mum is really nice, but she shot back with, I hate her.”
“Dean’s a mate of mine and...”
“I can’t stand him.”
It was a disaster on all counts and he, of course, did not request a second date.
But that was 1988. Now A was on her feet, spouting all sorts of hateful nonsense about Asian immigrants and their place being nowhere near Australia.
Dean’s Mum and other sister sat cowed on the sofa. We knew that A often verbally abused them both and sometimes hit them, with Dean having to get out of bed in the middle of the night to step in or call the police.
The trouble for A, is that I am not as petite as her mother or sister. I am five foot seven in flat shoes and was then in training for a half marathon. I had also grown up with two hyperactive brothers and knew how to wrestle.
“How dare you say those things. I will not have anyone in my house say those things about other people or my brother’s fiancée.”
She lunged towards me and I lunged right back. This surprised her a little because her usual, smaller prey were more defenceless and not able to adequately defend themselves. As I was furiously deciding between bestowing a dead leg or a sharp slap to the face, Dean had heard the yelling from outside and was now separating us with what he had on hand – a greasy pair of BBQ tongs.
He firmly gripped A by the shoulders and walked her to the front door and into her car. She drove off, still yelling obscenities, this time at me and not the Singaporean fiancée she had never met.
About a week later, we saw her familiar yellow Ford laser drive up our street at midnight before hearing “you stuck up cunt” and a beer bottle smashed on our front steps. Over the next few years, we would occasionally receive a phone call from A which said guff like ‘You’re going to pay for this’ or ‘you think you’re so much better than me but you’re a piece of shit,’ before abruptly hanging up.
It was only at Dean’s mother’s funeral in 2008 that she approached me and said, “Well, I guess I should say sorry to you.”
“Yeah, I guess you should.” I felt sorry for her by then. Her bitterness and determination to blame all her sadness and loneliness on events based long in the past had destroyed her. She had alienated everyone in her life and was being actively avoided by everyone at the post memorial afternoon tea. I cuddled then nine-year old daughter up against me and smiled across the room at Dean who was chatting to his aunties.
As the years rolled on, R married WC and she was a welcomed family member to all our gatherings.
In 2012, our daughter was almost thirteen years old and in the grips of a frighteningly dark depression and self-loathing that Dean and I were desperately struggling to understand. During our Christmas visit to Australia, WC witnessed some of her behaviour and decided to lecture her, explaining that she only gives people ‘three strikes’ and then they are out. Out of her life forever.
Our daughter wondered if WC’s parents had applied that same rule to her and was assured that they had. This did not sit well with the many stories we had heard about the fights with her sister and troublemaking they got up to, but as guests for a couple of days in R and WCs home, our daughter had to suck it up.
A few days later, Dean and I drove our daughter to the children’s hospital in Adelaide because she felt suicidal. The shame I felt – and still feel, writing this eight years later - at not believing her will stay with me forever. With psychiatric help and hindsight of my own, I can barely touch on the exhaustion of trying to manage what I thought was her unceasing hatred of Dean and I and the despair we felt at seeing her unceasing pain and not knowing how to help or reassure her of our love which was destroying us all.
In short, it was an exceedingly difficult trip ‘home’ to Australia.
Five months later in 2013, I received this email from R’s wife, WC. It has been edited for brevity and relevance.
Subject title: Final letter to the Locket
Hi Kath,
You have not done anything to hurt me.
The plain truth is: You to me, is like pumpkin to you.
I have tried for 12 years to like you.
I do not agree with 99% of your decision, do not approve of your behaviour.
We do not share the same taste in everything (even chocolate, you love creme eggs which is the only chocolate I will not eat), don't share the same outlook. I do not enjoy our time together.
My motto is: Life is too short to pretend to like someone or to waste time in doing things I do not enjoy. So, I do not see the point of continuing our relationship.
Simple fact is you are struck off my friend/family list. I made my decision and announced it to your parents, your brother and his wife and your brother R. I did not ask them to do the same because I neither need approval nor support from anyone for my action.
Yes, I am selfish, arrogant, intolerant, ungracious; so, it is no loss to you then for me not to contact you any further.
Yes, I could do the 'normal' thing, just simply make up excuses and avoid future contact (e.g. too much work to go to Victor Harbor during Xmas, feeling unwell to go for dinner etc).
However, I respect your parents too much to lie to them and they will see through it anyway.
That is the thing - you haven't done anything specifically wrong to me. So, there is no wrong to correct, and no side to take for your parents. I don't wish to have any further discussion, your email will remain blocked.
Analogy: you don't have to justify to people why don't you eat pumpkin, so I don't have to justify to anyone why don't I associate with Locketts.
You have a great life, I know you will.
Sincerely,
WC
So, essentially, she cut me out of her – and therefore my older brother’s life - and not associating with ‘Locketts’ presumably meant that Dean and our daughter were also dead to her.
In May 2013 when our daughter turned fourteen years old, she cried. Somehow, she hoped that Auntie WC and Uncle R would see that their problem was with me. she was just a struggling kid, still growing and learning, so surely they’d at least send her a birthday card. They did not.
They didn’t send her a card for Christmas, or for her fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth, twentieth or twenty first birthdays either. She stopped crying by her sixteenth.
Our daughter is approaching twenty-two years old now and her wisdom, intelligence, humour, kindness and beauty astound me every single time I see her in person or on facetime. She’s currently stuck in lockdown as a student at Edinburgh uni and always wants us to show her what Felix the dog is up to in our apartment. She earned a spectacularly high mark for her International Baccalaureate and the major award at school for being the academically-gifted student who also actively cared for and advocated for others. WC and R know none of this.
R and WC also aren’t aware of the great work that Dean is doing in Geneva, the project he has so long fought for and successfully concluded with a new one just about to start. His love and kindness for me as I struggled and continue to struggle with anxiety and depression. His admiration and love for his daughter as they compare recipes over the internet and his commitment to helping new colleagues settle into life in a new country and to get fair conditions for his staff.
WC and R have missed all of that. The few times we’ve made it to Australia, they are absent, revolted by our presence. When my mother turned eighty years old in September, my little brother set up two iPads on the table by the birthday cake – one for us to speak to mum and one for them to speak to her. I dearly wish they had set up two different times for the calls as it just emphasised the irreparable split in our family and made me feel so very sad afterwards.
The powerlessness I feel at being loathed enough to be written off as a human being, along with the man I love most in the world and my beautiful child is so isolating and heart breaking. My parents tell me that R and WC have refused to give them the reason for our exile and as her email suggests, they would not listen to me even if I did try to contact them for an explanation. My younger brother doesn’t want any trouble, nor do my parents, so we three here in Geneva just have to accept that we are the outsiders and it’s because of me. Not Dean, nor our daughter, but me.
I’m no Royal watcher, but the news about the concern about the colour of baby Archie’s skin and the refusal to help Meghan get treatment for her mental distress was shocking. No-one could dispute those instances as being anything but inhumane and callous. But the one that punched me in the gut? Prince Charles refusing to take his son Harry’s phone calls.
How cold. How despicably cruel. His son wanted to protect his family and leave the duties required of him if he stayed a royal. His father had treated his Firm-sanctioned virgin bride Diana with thinly veiled contempt whilst continuing to have an affair with Camilla and give voice to his desire to act as her tampon. After the inevitable divorce, Charles and Camilla simply carried on happily with their romance as Diana was hounded to death escaping from the paparazzi.
Yet Chuck doesn’t want to speak to his youngest son who was only twelve when his mother died and did not wish a similar fate for his own wife.
After seeing snippets of ‘that’ interview with Oprah, it made me think back to the almost brawl I had with A at lunch twenty years ago, wishing that I had been given the time to get a punch in before Dean intervened.
Knowing what I know now about the person I defended, would I have changed anything?
The answer is no.
Bev at Sunday Stealing provides the questions and we bloggers provide the answers, as correctly and as honestly as we can.
1. Do you put ketchup on hot dogs?
This Australian has never really enjoyed hotdogs much as seeing their very pale pink 'meat' sit in a transparent warmer in tepid second hand steam never looked very appetising. Not that the cheapest Australian sausage could claim to be any more nutritious, but when they're cooked on a BBQ until their skin turns carcinogenically black and they're placed diagonally across a slice of white bread with TOMATO sauce slathered on, they are heaven in your hand.
2. How many TVs in your house?
Two. A ten year old one we bought when we first moved to Switzerland and it fits neatly into the bookshelf. The second one we bought two months ago after fully embracing French Lockdown Fatigue and the need (want?) to watch stuff in bed.
3. Do you put salt on watermelon?
What...? NO? Why on earth would you do that?
4. Can you swim?
Yes. Most Aussie kids learned in backyard pools, being thrown into the river on holidays or in their first years of primary school. Pools are considered fun places for belly-flops, backflips, dive bombs etc, so when I first attended the Kincorth Academy Swimming Club (indoors, of course) and made my entry via a rather impressive bomber jump, I was met with shocked silence. Swimming club was for swimming. Serious laps.
Back in Australia we were lucky enough to have neighbours with in-ground swimming pools who were always kind enough to invite us to come over. Many of my dinners were viewed through a chroninated fog as I adored swimming underwater with my eyes open. The photo here is from 1979 and I'm standing next to our family's version of a pool. A metal frame and tarpaulin number filled with water straight out of the Murray River.
And yes, that was the colour of our bathwater as well. No wonder I looked so tanned as a child!
5. Are your parents still alive?
Yes. Mum turned eighty in September and of course there was no way I was allowed to fly back to Australia to see her, and my Dad turned eighty last weekend. Dad was sporting an impressive black eye and stitches due his latest round of skin cancer removals and Mum was thrilled to discover that she'd made the grand final team for bowls that week. Even at eighty, competition in sport is madly fierce.
Whilst their life in South Australia seems incredibly free and easy with Covid only making its presence felt via a few hand sanitisers in shops, we expats are still being told by the embassy to NOT travel home. The new Covid variants are being brought in by overseas visitors, so Facetime will have to do until, when, 2022?
6. First car?
It was 1989 and I paid $1600 for a 1971 poo brown Renault 16TS. This would be regarded as ancient if you'd purchased an eighteen year old car here in Europe, but with rust being a minor problem, a lot of Aussies will happily drive cars until at least their twentieth year. Plus, cars are inordinately expensive compared to the average salary. My Rodney the Renault only did 80km maximum but the freedom of having my own little brown bomb to get around Adelaide was exhilarating. No matter how many better cars you have since, it's the exciting freedom and buzz of your very first car that never gets repeated.
7. Surgeries?
Adenoids when I was five, but the memories are fuzzy. My brothers were in hospital at the same time so it must have been a nice three day break for my parents. I don't remember any pain or discomfort but do recall the fascination of the individually wrapped gold pats of butter and jams on my tray for breakfast. I saved some to take home!
Hysterectomy two years ago. With a reproductive system the gynaecologist described as 'healthy as a twenty year old's,' heavy periods and no menopause anywhere near my fifty two year old horizon, it was suggested I lose around half a kilogram and get the unhelpfully active uterus whipped out. I didn't fancy being the mother a baby at seventy or the village's first ninety year old wet nurse. Even after the operation, I am not menopausal. The ovaries are still in there and create a monthly hormonal festival of their own. I get moody, a weird red rash around my neck like an angry dog collar, a lovely selection of pimples and a good wallop of PMS. I'm saving money not buying tampons I guess.
8. What do you drink in the morning?
A glass of water and then a delicious cup of bean to-brew coffee made by myself, or if he's up earlier, Dean. Our DeLonghi grinds the beans and has a milk steamer attachment and is unarguably the best way to unfold our faces and think about the day ahead. A hot beverage is a good way to force you to sit relatively still for a few minutes. A modern day meditation if you will.
I have a second coffee after my long lunchtime walk with Felix but the rest of the day is water. Love the stuff. Wine if it's the weekend, but usually each room has a glass of water in it that I've half drunk or forgotten about.
9. Can you do 100 push ups?
On my knees, crying and moaning, I'd say a very quiet and qualified 'yes' but I have never, even at my youngest and fittest, ever been able to manage ONE from my toes. Thus far, this shameful lack of athleticism has affected my life in no way whatosever.
10. Can you change a tire?
Embarrassingly no. I've always been with someone who can and it has never (runs out to touch the ficus tree hoping that it counts as 'wood') happened while I've been driving on my own.
11. Tattoos?
Three. The first one was done around twelve years ago, a small blue rose on my hip. Blue is my favourite colour and happens to be the colour of Dean and our daughter's eyes. Roses are my favourite flower.
The second one is a tiny semi-colon on my inner ankle. The semi-colon has become a symbol for depression sufferers who acknowledge their difficulties but are determined to press on. In a written sentence, the semicolon symbolizes the continuation of a sentence and a change of direction rather than an ending. He felt suicidal; she talked him down. The semi-colon lets you understand that life, even if it starts negatively in a sentence, can go on to better things.
The third is three blue roses on my left wrist. Three is my favourite number and my family (of humans) is three. Blue is my favourite colour, rose is still my favourite flower. It feels as though I take my favourite boy and favourite girl with me where I go.
12. Do you wear sunglasses?
You betcha. As a migraine sufferer, they're essential. Even now that I'm on the wonder drug Emgality and my migraines have amazingly reduced from fourteen to one per month, the bright light can either bring a migraine on or just make it difficult to see and focus. It's like the world has become too loud and demanding. I've even got prescription lenses in them so that I can still read and see ahead in the distance.
13. Do you have a phobia?
Probably spiders. The big hairy huntsmen spiders were regularly visitors inside our house in Murray Bridge. They never seemed to be afraid of anything and if you lunged at them with a broom handle, they'd be just as likely to jump straight for your face. If you parked your car under a shady tree, spiders would sometimes move house to your car. I once pulled down my sun visor to see a hand-sized spider spread across the visor about five centimetres away from my face. I swerved left, with no sanity or concern for passing traffic and leapt out of the car. I couldn't climb back in until a kindly gentlemen used his thong (flip flop, NOT g-string) to fling it out of the car for me.
One of the joys of living in Europe is that big hairy spiders don't seem to take up residence in apartments. The biggest insect we see up here are lost bumble bees. Instead of a scream, they get a 'good onya little fella' in congratulations for making it up two storeys.
14. Do you have a nickname?
My maiden name was Read so sometimes it was Kathy Read as in 'Kathy read a book.' Or 'Chopper' as the infamous of hitman Mark 'Chopper' Read began to spread. My parents called me Bubbles because I had a spherical face as a baby and there was a podgy football player at the time who was called Bubbles. And, of course, Kath-URINE by my younger brother, who, even know, just shortens it to 'urine' when he sees me.
Bubbles and Chopper Read all in one!
15. Are you a picky eater?
Yes and no. Yes in that there are certain foods that I really don't like, so much so that I can physically gag if presented with them. These include pumpkin, sweet potato, offal. Picky too in that I will actively avoid anything that I had too much of as a child. My mother was not a good or enthusiastic cook, so fried lamb chops were on the menu at least four days a week. I don't care how tender the cut or the wondrously creatively method used by the chef, I won't order them.
I'll be putting most of my writing on Medium, but here seems to be the right place for lists.
We've all heard of a gaggle of geese, a murder of crows and a parliament of owls. Apart from a group or a crowd of people, we seem to be lacking descriptors of specific humans bunched together.
On the F bus from Ferney to Geneva, more commonly known as the 'Corona Conveyance,' the time was pleasantly passed by thinking up a few group labels:
A smoke of teenagers
A squeal of girls
A BO of boys
A weed of snowboarders
A spandex of cyclists
A portaloo of festival goers
A selfie stick of tourists
A bubble wrap of removalists
A latte of baristas
A lanyard of office workers
A sleet of meteorologists
A baguette of bakers
An idiocy of MAGAts
A greed of conservatives
A deckchair of caravanners
A sandwich of picnickers
A regret of binge drinkers
A corduroy of uni students
A tassel of pole dancers
An invisibility of parcel deliverers
A boredom of bus drivers
A coffee cloud of teachers
A concern of mothers
A stickiness of toddlers
An inconvenience of road workers
A tardiness of plumbers
A fright of fashionistas
An annoyance of ticket inspectors
A vape of hipsters
An armpit of backpackers
A gallop of marathoners
A testicle of share traders
A yawn of home brewers
A coloured parka of middle-agers
A stumble of day drinkers
A flab of fast food customers
A spritz of make-up counter consultants
A dread of dentists
A stirrup of gynaecologists
A skid mark of politicians
A smug of baby boomers
A splat of potters
An optimism of interns
A magnum of sommeliers
An ugg boot of Work From Homers
A depression of morticians
A loneliness of cos-players
A jolly of dog walkers
A flop of Trumps
A nope of evangelists
A tea break of council workers
An eating disorder of models
A grope of rich men
A crazy of kite-surfers
A wedgie of physicists
An ignorance of republicans
A flatulence of slow walkers
A jealous judgment of passport checkers
An inferiority of Instagram influencers
An unwanted of modern interpretative dancers
A six pack of gym junkies
A chino of dads
A punch of siblings
A celibacy of bullies
A charcuterie platter of art lovers
A fatigue of minimum wage workers
An unfortunate of Iraqis
An impotence of online trolls
An unsuccessful wank of white supremacists
A scorn of vegans
A presumption of Karens
A shame of vote suppressors
A sob of empty nesters
A malevolence of Murdochs
A Tupperware of tea ladies
A poverty of pokie addicts
A chardonnay of divorcees
A skin cancer of sunbathers
An ugliness of anti-semites
An inebriation of horse race gamblers
A tottering of nightclub girlies
A belch of buffet diners
A smegma of vandals
An unnecessary of reality stars
A useless of YouTubers
A hemp bag of hippies
A disappointment of aunts
A glee of lawyers
A disapproval of pensioners
A sigh of checkout chicks
A daydream of drama students
An iPhone of commuters
A notepad of journalists
A starvation of models
A patience of queuers
A kindness of vaccinators
A selfishness of anti-vaxxers
An efficiency of nurses
A toilet bowl of radio talk show hosts
AND OF COURSE:
A procrastination of writers
Feel free to add your own!
My mother made it clear in so many ways that she loved her children, but she could also be rather blunt. “All three of you were funny lookin...
